


Real Shit, Feelin’ Saturated

by cruorecuore



Series: Copacabana [2]
Category: Friday Night Funkin' (Video Game), Pico's School (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Pico, Clothed Sex, Corruption, Demons, Dom/sub, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Frottage, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Overdose, Polyamory, Religious Conflict, Schizophrenia, Sexual Tension, tagging as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruorecuore/pseuds/cruorecuore
Summary: A collection of FNF oneshots, either by request or from myself.
Relationships: Boyfriend (Friday Night Funkin')/Pico (Pico's School), Boyfriend/Girlfriend (Friday Night Funkin'), Girlfriend (Friday Night Funkin')/Pico (Pico's School), Girlfriend/Boyfriend (Friday Night Funkin’)/Pico (Pico’s School)
Series: Copacabana [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162952
Comments: 40
Kudos: 76





	1. (A/N) Rundown

This chapter is just a rundown of everything I’ll intend to do with this fic, if you can call it that lol.

If you’ve read it or not, I already have a FNF series— of which I scrapped a _hella lot_ of stuff out of, so I could just post that here for more shipping content ig.

Think of it as like a shitposting fic lmao.

This specific chapter is where you can comment your own requests/ideas and I’ll write them out with no cost bc fuck that shit, first of all.

And second, I really love you guys’ ideas and it’s actually really fun to be given prompts and write them out easily instead of wasting hours and hours of coming up with a stable plot. Y’know?

If you’re not comfortable with commenting here, anonymous or not, you can send the prompts/requests into my Twitter: 4555ryeo

My tumblr is broken for some reason. So if you sent one there I didn’t get it 😐

I’m kinda new at this so don’t fuckin judge me lmao, but it can’t be that hard. I write 247. (Ew this kinda sounds like a Wattpad story lmfao)

  
But really, here’s a bunch of shit I’m fine with writing:

\- Gore, violence, sex, anything explicit, panic attacks or breakdowns, fluff, angst, really anything (I’m not really bothered by anything)

Things I won’t do:

\- Anything to do with feet, shit (as in feces), or underage things.

(If you want a high school prompt kind’ve thing, though, then that isn’t an issue.)

Now that that’s cleared up, go stupid and crazy lmao. You can be thorough (the more, the better) with your requests, and I’ll do my damndest to write out your request to the best of my ability.

I will give you credits in the notes of the chapter requests if you want them, so if you wanna remain anonymous or use a pen-name, just let me know.

Warnings or what’ll be inside the chapter will all be tagged inside both the summary and the top A/N.

That being said, shoot them away!


	2. Cloud 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Request) Prompt: All Pico’s life, he’d been a dom, until Keith suggests that they try something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: sub!Pico, explicit language, sexual activity, frottage, cough cough, ahem, ykno good shit

“Stop, you fucking asshole.”

The smaller of the pair was pushed into the small of the couch, trapped beneath the weight of his partner who was attempting to put him into a chokehold.

Keith puts out both hands to the guy’s chest to push him off, but Pico easily grabs them and presses their chests together instead.

When he gives him an annoyed look, Pico grins, their mouths only inches apart.

The solid gun tucked away into Pico’s pocket slightly scraped against the side of Keith’s hip. It was uncomfortable, but he knew that the guy wasn’t ever at ease without it, so even during sex, the ginger kept his gun.

Pico kisses his neck, flattening the other’s hands down above his head with one of his own. He uses the other to slide the ends of Keith’s shirt up, his cold fingers grazing his stomach.

Keith’s into and all, a throbbing sensation in both his chest and groin, but there’s some slight dissatisfaction with the position.

“You should let me top,” he says, nonetheless.

He feels a breeze of air spill out of Pico’s mouth from the grin that he makes, cooling the skin of his neck.

“You’re funny as shit.”

“I’m serious, man.”

They’re just looking at each other, paused in that position of Pico on top of Keith with his hands pinned.

“You’re not sticking anything up my ass, Keith.” Pico has this smug grin, like he knew that this conversation wasn’t going anywhere.

And he was right. They start to kiss and then they screw.

They don’t bring the subject back up again after that, but that hadn’t necessarily meant that Keith had given up.

Because he hadn’t.

He’s smirking like a fox one day, nearly a month from the last time they’ve talked about swapping positions.

Pico’s sprawled over the couch and a bit high. Keith adjusts himself sideways, leans over and then grabs both of the guy’s wrists in a similar fashion to what they usually do.

As he goes to pin them, Pico easily and also frighteningly breaks out of the grip and snaps at him, “The fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Keith says a bit too fast. He reached his hands out again to grab the ginger’s slender wrists, but Pico quickly rips them away.

“Stop. What the fuck?”

There’s a frustrated whine trapped in the back of the younger’s throat, but he doesn’t let it show. Pico starts to sit up.

Keith knew he couldn’t overpower the guy, but he could attempt another approach. “Just trust me, Pico.”

“That’s the thing. I _don’t_ fucking trust you, not with that creepy ass smile.”

“If you really love me, then just trust me,” Keith says a little more seriously, the smile becoming harder to control because he knew that he struck the ginger’s soft spot, the one that he hardly ever showed.

Pico only gives him a suspicious look.

Keith nudges him playfully, almost sadly. “What? You don’t love me? Maybe I should go back to—”

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence, Keith.”

The younger grins slyly. He slithers back over the ginger, roughly nudging him back down onto his spine.

Pico is completely stone-faced when Keith pins his pale wrists up, grinning like a fucking demon.

He can’t help the grimace forming on his face, the faintest dash of pink just _hardly_ tainting his skin when Keith switches to one hand, uses the free one to grab the underside of his knee.

Keith freezes, looking absolutely wicked. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Pico’s face says it all. Keith struggles to keep it together, because the image is just fucking funny. The tension is really the only thing that saved the kid from getting a bullet lodged into his shoulder.

Still, he lets Keith put his mouth on his neck, tries, but fails, to not grow increasingly rigid throughout the process of a bruise being sucked by teeth into his neck. A very obvious one, at that.

“Stop being so stiff,” Keith scolds him, pulling back.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Keith raises his mouth to the guy’s jaw momentarily, gives it a biting kiss, one not particularly enough to do anything.

He’s slow with it, though, unlike Pico, who’s fast and rough and certainly dominant with everything they’ve ever done in their relationship. Keith’s make sure this was different, though.

Keith moves his mouth atop of Pico’s to kiss him hastily just before pulling back. He stops pinning his wrists to grab both of his legs and wrap them around his own waist.

To say that the ginger was compliant was nowhere near the truth.

Pico doesn’t let his legs follow the grip. He pries them back and together over his stomach. Keith merely opens them back up and stuffs himself between. It’s incredibly irritating for either parties.

They struggle with this for a minute until Keith huffs, “Holy shit. I’m not gonna hurt you, Pico. I mean, unless you ask for it.”

Pic hits him at that, but that’s expected. The position is still reluctantly achieved, though, ankles locking across Keith’s lower back.

Keith rams their mouths back together, but goes with their typically rough route. Pico responds normally, allows their tongues to collide together, some saliva dragging across the outside corner of his mouth.

His hands raise to grab either sides of Keith’s jaw, enforcing the kiss to be a bit deeper, too damn into it to stop, but the younger disconnects their mouths right after that stunt, leaving the ginger panting.

He catches the drift. Keith has to guide him to move his hands off of his face and loop around his shoulders, and only then do they continue the kiss because Pico’s not supposed to be in the lead. Not this time.

Keith’s hands palm over his clothed stomach, skidding up his shirt and feeling over the cold, scarred flesh. He pushes his hips forward, feeling more of the ginger’s unusually cold body.

Pico makes the tiniest sound at that, though muffled. Keith can’t help but grin into the wet mess. It fills him with the adrenaline to nudge his hips forward and do the shit again.

The ginger doesn’t make a sound this time, but his face slightly twitches, as if he was feeling some type of way about it but restrained himself from showing it.

Keith licks his lips, smeared with the mixed taste of them both. They’re still completely clothed, minus the crack of skin of Pico’s lightly marred stomach, which is also a bit hollowed.

Pico doesn’t tear his eyes away from the man once as he leans back to unzip his jeans, but not take them off. He reaches for Pico’s after, who jumps back a bit.

“I’ll do it myself.”

“We won’t go all the way if that’ll make you feel better,” Keith tells him, accompanied by a warm yet off-putting smile, one that makes Pico both blush (which is definitely a first) and glare. “Unless?”

“ _Unless_ nothing, you fucking blueberry.”

Keith makes that cute-weird laugh with his nose. It doesn’t make Pico any less annoyed, though.

He watches as the ginger slowly fumbles out of his slim-fitted cargos (the gun settled on the couch alongside themselves), immediately yanking his shirt down over his sage boxers.

Once it’s off, Keith leaps back down onto the couch, hooking his legs over the cushion, awaiting expectantly. Pico just fucking stares.

“You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“ _Please_?” Keith looks liked a kicked dog, pouting like that with those eyes.

The ginger doesn’t fucking fall for it in the slightest, but he still goes (though slightly unwilling) when Keith’s arms wrap around his torso, bringing him forward.

Just hating the way that those black eyes sparkled, Pico snaps, “Say it, and I’ll stab you in your dick.”

Keith only grins. His hands are briefly ambling over the ginger’s body, lifting the shirt up and palming the marginally narrow waist.

The feeling’s completely foreign to Pico. It isn’t at all similar to when Keith is hugging him, or just touching him just to piss him off.

The lack of outerwear provides an easier access between the two. Keith, the eager fuck, doesn’t show hesitance in pinning down Pico by his waist, bucking his hips up and capturing his mouth all in one same gesture.

The balance of sitting on Keith’s much smaller legs nearly has him toppling backwards, so Pico clings to his shoulders. When Keith encourages him with a palm on his underside, the ginger hisses at him.

Keith switches angle to give them both more ease. He takes one of the ginger’s legs and bends it across his own hipbone.

When the force of his clothed front hits Pico’s ass, he jerks and smacks a palm to Keith’s hip. Blue eyes stare up at him with enough force to kill a buffalo stampede. Keith thinly smiles, moves the arched leg up further until the knee bone is at the host’s chin, and then he grinds themselves together.

The sudden bloom of pressure all throughout the ginger’s lower stomach has all the blood rushing into his face, making it throb. He decides it’s embarrassing; the angle, the situation, himself, so he throws his elbow over his eyes and breathes, open-mouthed.

Doesn’t dare make a sound because he knew that the asshole above himself wouldn’t ever let it go. He was stuck, though not quite literally.

Keith himself makes a sound, more of a low, throaty noise. His thumb is pressing into the exposed skin of Pico’s thigh, gradually squeezing the thinned mass with every thrust.

When he sees the angle that the ginger puts himself into, he merely leans down and touches a kiss to his jaw and another to his neck to the side of his arm. He uses his freehand to move away the elbow, just for second, taking his lips in for a kiss.

Pico wrenches his head aside to avoid the kiss. Keith surprises him by grabbing his chin and yanking him back, forcing him back into the kiss he wouldn’t give.

They both knew Pico would kill him, but only after they both finished, of course. That’s just who Pico was.

Keith licks his tongue into the insides of Pico’s mouth, attempts at suppressing a smirk with how submissive the guy’s grown overtime, but, of course, fails.

At this point, the ginger had gripped the couch with one fist, the other still flattened across Keith’s stomach, as if pushing him away and encouraging him all at once.

At a particular stroke, the ginger makes a noise sounding suspiciously like a whine. Since they’re still kissing, wet and sloppy, it’d be impossible to not hear.

Pico rips away from the kiss again, a variety of red colored over his freckled nose because he realized that, too, and Keith just lets him. He bites onto his pale neck, uses the skin as a mechanism to shut himself up, both hands now brutally gripping the waist tucked beneath himself.

As their chests compress, the ginger moves to grip the couch with both hands, knowing that if he were to hold Keith in any way, it’d mean that he gave up all of his dominance.

He’d obviously never let that fucking happen, not in several million years, but as an unbearable heat (feeling nearly like a balmy summer spent in some fucking _volcano_ ) spreads throughout his torso and face, Keith more than just aware, the two break off the contact.

Pico immediately grabs the younger by the front of his shirt, all but yanks him down with a deathly glare. Keith looks awfully smug. They both know what’s coming.

Nonetheless, the ginger waits a few seconds because he doesn’t want to. He even bucks his own hips up to resume the friction between them, but it isn’t the same without Keith’s effort.

Slightly begrudgingly, though very much in a whisper just absolutely _teeming_ of desperation, he finally whines, “Please?”

Keith grins and kisses him again, giving in. He picks up the pace a single notch, rocking his hips forward, though still so slow yet hard and sharp.

Pico’s still gripping the front of his shirt, to a point where his extremely blunt nails was felt through the thin material, though going completely unnoticed once the ginger drawled out the most hottest whine.

Both of his legs are shaking, yet he wraps only that one around Keith’s waist and forces him even closer. He forgets all his thoughts of maintaining his dominance, switching to wrapping his arms around the younger’s shoulders, both squeezing and tugging him down lower.

Keith curses, hides his nose into the guy’s neck when he’s held onto as if one were falling off some edge. Pico gives him this nearly silent plead, of which he only has to repeat a second time before they’re kissing once more.

Blood and saliva are exchanged that final time, Keith impaling his teeth into the ginger’s lower lip. Pico pleads and pleads, trembles until there’s a wet, though hot warmth blooming between the two, staining either covers.

Keith is initially shocked, but he finishes not even a second afterwards, yanking the older’s hips down like he wasn’t somehow a whole twenty pounds heavier.

They sit there, or rather, Pico is trapped there, the pair panting completely out of sync, but that really didn’t matter.

The younger scraped his lips over the other’s temporarily, gliding down his nearly sweat-soaked throat before he gets right off. Too much pressure on the ginger when he didn’t want it wasn’t comfortable.

Pico looks a fucking mess, when he gazes. He doesn’t try to hold back his laugh.

“You look so hot right now, dude. We should really do this again.”

The ginger immediately sits up to smack him upside the head. At least he didn’t try to fucking strangle him again.


	3. A Sky Without Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a scrapped scene of my series fic Y2K (chapter 12: Empire).
> 
> (Mine) Prompt: A look into how Pico is when he’s stressed or all alone with only his thoughts for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: language, mentions of school shootings, self-harm, blood/violence, mental breakdowns, non-religious beliefs, etc

Whoever had said that being alone and depending on yourself was a complete and utter fool that knew nothing about the fucked-up truths of life at all.

When seated in the company of his friends, he finds that he frequently fights with himself, or rather the urge to grope the trigger on his handgun and silence everything around him.

Pico gazes at Nene and Darnell, completely out of it. This isn’t new, this is actually real regular, and they weren’t affected by it at all.

They knew how to handle these attacks, whether that be quietly approaching the ginger and telling him everything was gone and in the past, or leaving him in the room by himself (because his thoughts easily overpowered any sound in the room, even a scream directly streaming through his line of hearing).

How exactly could you depend on yourself when you were the one breaking yourself down? Tearing yourself apart until there was nothing left but a mangled, demoralized mess?

How could he be alone all the time and not think of everything that’s happened to him?

When he’s alone, sitting on his bed in a slightly awkward position (because he isn’t exactly in touch with reality at the moment), he grips the bedsheets from the flashing, mortifying images of elementary school kids eating mouthfuls of bullets, blood pouring out all over the floor.

He’d never seen so much blood in his life, and to think that it all came from kids he once knew, teachers that once talked to him as a favorite were all gone, slain by other _fellow_ kids was just...

He couldn’t see apples or oranges or any type of fruit the same way again after his childhood. There was no coming back from that, really, so he just accepted it.

(Technically, any normal person wouldn’t call that a childhood, but it was. It was just a really fucked up one. He knew that.)

Sometimes things were alright. Sometimes he wouldn’t get these flashing, violent crime scenes or be submerged in the smell of gunpowder and metal, lungs _full_ of it (when in actuality, it was never there to begin with).

Other times, he wasn’t so lucky.

He’d be on the floor curled up on himself, grabbing at the floor, yanking his hair, clawing at his scalp, _begging_ it all to stop, pleading with the world or some God to take him out because he didn’t have the courage to do it himself.

He wasn’t exactly suicidal, though. He didn’t want to die, but he definitely didn’t want to live.

Pico didn’t want to be in a place where he’d just continue to be tortured by his own past, but at the same time, he didn’t want to die just to reconnect with all the dead people he’s either known or killed.

So Nene gives him a blade and he tries the method she has to try and help him get out of that mindset.

He definitely doesn’t get addicted because the first slice was twice as deep as intended. All the blood gushing out nearly makes him faint.

Pico promises himself he’d never do that again, because it really wasn’t his thing. 

On the other hand, he was aware that he wasn’t mental (or at least, doesn’t think he is), but he does take Xanax to soothe away the scorching urge to shoot everything in his line of sight.

The morning after a particularly impulsive decision, the sensation of powder and bumpy texture scraping his throat when he swallows, is forever engraved in his brain along with other shit.

Still, with an overly-lax body, he tells them that he was just sick. It _was_ flu season.

* * *

  
The gun trembles in his fingers, the barrel digging into the side of his head. His finger sits not-so-delicately on the trigger.

It feels as if there was no air left in the world to spare for him.

He hallucinates a blue-skinned, mutilated Nene, and since it’s a hallucination, he doesn’t know that it isn’t real.

The gun lowers and then drops. His fingers run up to his hair upon instinct, eyes almost stretched at the sight of all that rotted tissue sticking out of her practically severed forearms.

The words are trapped in his throat, not even a gasp of air could escape out of his gaping mouth. His body has stopped trembling from all the mental agony he was indirectly bringing upon himself. One of his palms escape from bruising his scalp to cover his mouth, his nearly bared teeth.

She was dead? When had she died? The hospital hadn’t even called him...?

Nene smiles at him like she would any other day, beaming with white teeth and slight dimples. She doesn’t appear to be in any pain, despite all the blood pouring out of her arms like a damn ocean.

His knees are drenched in red. He makes the mistake of setting a palm onto the ground for balance although he’s already seated, because then the blood is on his skin and it smears.

A broken sob escapes his throat, but he isn’t crying quite just yet. It’s more of a shocked reaction to the sight of his mangled friend sitting right in front of him, spilling out all her blood onto him.

Pico decides that he can’t look at her anymore. As much as that thought pains him, makes him feel like he’s the biggest asshole in the world for not being able to look his friend in the fucking eyes, he just couldn’t do it.

The ginger hunches over onto all fours, stares and stares at the carpet slowly becoming more and more matted and stained and sticky with crimson body liquid.

The image tears him open and fills him with more images, the memories of all his friends dying by the hands of _her_.

  
He wouldn’t say her name. Not again.

His chest is raising and falling heavily, almost in an exaggerated fashion, but nothing about it is forged.

His vision goes a bit blurry. There’s some dampness encircling his eyes. He immediately mistakes it for blood and all but scrapes it away with his palms and nails, blemishing the skin purple.

There’s a knock at the front door.

He figures that shit wouldn’t ever get any better, so sitting around on the floor mourning about someone who was in a better place wouldn’t serve a single purpose.

Pico stiffly moves his jaw up. The carpet is it’s usual tan. It isn’t sticky, stained, nor the despised red. There’s no sight of Nene anywhere, but there’s a lingering notion of her, her torn forearms and her smile in his brain.

He gets up with his gun in his pocket, swallows a xanny, and answers the door.

A cool breeze of air hits his face, something he never figured he’d needed.

His body feels a bit drowsy, a little sluggish. The skin of his face and his scalp was still throbbing, irritated by all the collision.

He gets a glimpse of scenery before a voice breaks the silence, and his eyes flicker down.

A blue-haired teen stares up at him with a slight glare as if he’d been there for some time, which confuses Pico just a tad.

He hadn’t answered it too long after the knock, had he? 

His brain in embroidered with warmth, a near sense of security as if that’s been something he’d trained himself to do since the beginning. He hadn’t, though, but if he knew how, he wouldn’t be in this painful situation.

Keith glares a bit harder.

The main system of his body already feels a bit relaxed by the effects of the medicine. Pico widens the space of the door and says finally, “Hey, baby.”

“Shut up. Don’t call me that.”

All Pico could do is disguise his smile as a smirk, not only because that’s what the kid is used to seeing, but also because he unknowingly saved him from himself.


	4. Blammed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one’s from [shy anon]!
> 
> (Request) Prompt: While Pico’s able to save GF and BF from Lemon Demon’s corruption, he ends up getting infected by it.

He’s more puzzled than concerned, even after receiving such an erratic text message.

Nonetheless, he shows to the alleyway, the vacant expression already on his face remaining even after the sight of the hunching three.

At first, he’d mistake it for some mugging, but no one would be dumb enough to wear an oversized fruit for a mask. That much is clear. Unless you were just asking to be caught.

(Maybe that was the point.)

It’s mouth was ear-to-ear and cutting, human-like teeth grinding into an immobile grin. His circular eyes are pink and unblinking, gazing over Pico as if he was the next target.

Pico would still be convinced it was a mask if not for the occasional, faint twitch in it’s smile.

The thing lifts a claw and politely waves at him, says in a strangely kind voice, “You must be Pico.”

The ginger instantly raises his gun in preparation, but shoot because his eyes are mainly drawn to the two on either side of the thing.

You could definitely call them familiars, he knew who they were, but they weren’t his partners. They were corrupted beyond recognition, and for a moment, he almost let his fear show.

He remembers the two telling him something about a lemon demon. He tuned them out and called it bullshit, because he didn’t believe in demons or angels, or any of that shit.

For once, he wishes he would’ve listened, because he isn’t really sure what to do in this situation.

Pico could feel his heartbeat in his chest, but he keeps himself collected and doesn’t aim the barrel anywhere else.

“So you’re that psycho lemon fuck they were telling me about?”

The lemon monster puts his hands together. Pico swears his mouth gets a bit bigger, more _devilish_.

It appears falsely offended. Pico frankly and reasonably doesn’t give two shits.

The uncaring facade needed to be kept and stable. Demons like that feed on fear, hardly just that was clear. 

The demon goes after him, but it luckily doesn’t lunge. It doesn’t stop Pico from shooting him rapidly.

It’s only a handgun, but he shoots and shoots and shoots until the demon’s torso is nothing but a canvas littered in holes.

The demon peered down over his stomach, as if he were surprised by this turn of events. Pico glares at him, watching it gesture towards the ginger.

“What? You surrender, you fuckin’ lemon?”

He hadn’t understood at first. He keeps the gun pointed at the demon, ready to shoot more, until he sees his two, nearly unrecognizable partners walking towards him.

Midnight blue skin, gleaming pink eyes, symmetrical, twitching grins.

His grip on the gun weakens.

The demon makes this soft laughter, one that sounded as if it belonged to a child.

It knows. They both do, but not the other two, but maybe that was a good thing.

Pico knew if they were both self-conscious of their surrounding, they’d die from the guilt.

He couldn’t hold it against them, though. Could never.

He continues firing all his bullets into the bastard’s back as he leaves the three in the alleyway, no doubt for the two to kill him, or worse, corrupt him also and have him join it’s fucking cult.

Pico fumbled with the cartridge and the refills in his pockets, taking steps back as the two walked forward.

He wasn’t going to hurt them, he didn’t want to, that was the thing. But the two looked about ready to eat his fucking face off, so when Keith lunges, he couldn’t control his instinct.

(The one created by the shooting?)

Pico shoves him back, it’s the easiest and the only thing he could do.

He already felt a bit lightheaded, his vision growing blurry with how close the two were getting. He couldn’t feel the cool air anymore, but an overpowering sense of both fear and intent for murder.

He shoves Keith again, and just hardly ducks when Amelia lunges, scratching the skin of his cheek in strives for his face.

Pico steps back to avoid her again, but she latched onto him, so shoves her back as he had Keith, but a bit more gently.

The guilt is bleeding in his brain. His mind is on fire.

Those expressionless pink eyes gazing at him, the darkened claws raising towards him, it was all too familiar but he’d never felt it before. At least, not like this.

He shuffled back a bit too far, where there wasn’t anything to grab onto. He falls onto his behind, and immediately, he yanks his gun out and aims, switching between the two hastily, repeatedly.

But it’s panicked, meaningless.

He knew that he wouldn’t use the thing anymore that night.

Pico takes a shaking breath, ripping his eyes away down onto the ground. His hands fall to the ground, the gun lowering.

He clamps his eyes shut and grits his teeth, admitting his situation.

He feels weak for that, being unable to shoot them even if they were corrupted and about to kill him under a fucking lemon’s orders.

The ginger leans his weight onto one palm, flattened against the concrete in the alley. He raises the free one, still _barely_ gripping metal, raises it to aim at the pair of demons now hovering into his person space, the aura of evil making him feel as if he were thousands of miles below the ocean.

Neither of them lunge, though. They no longer attempt at attacking him.

Pico isn’t sure which is worse; the fact that they were standing there, unblinking and creepy and shit, or probably planning to make his death a slow one.

“Aren’t you gonna kill me?”

The demons only stare, impossibly close in his face, all he gets is two eyefuls of stretched, pink teeth.

Pico almost chuckles with how annoying it all was. He sets the barrel into the flat of Keith’s chest, hates himself for it, but pulls a finger around the trigger.

He’s grinning a bit, but his eyes are narrowed and his brows furrowed.

The gunshot is piercing. The second is deafening. The third is silent.

Pico later spends his days drowning in remorse. 

(His face in his hands, body unable to ever stop quivering, his face always damp.)

But they lived. The two slept peacefully, with bandaged stomachs, together in his bed while he sat in the corner and mourned.

(He hardly bandaged his own, because he thinks he deserves it. Maybe he does.)

But it couldn’t be helped.

He then plans out, when his mind isn’t screaming at him in several different voices, how he’ll find the demon and then kill him.

* * *

“Are you okay?”

The ginger had been in the kitchen, face in his palms, seated at the table when a figure showed into the doorway.

The voice was a bit raspy from all the days the host had been asleep.

Pico looks up in a hurry, eyes wide, and just as he thought that he might’ve been seeing shit, Keith is staring at him, still in the pajamas that Pico barely managed dressed him in the night that _it_ happened.

Keith gives him a weird look, as if he wasn’t the one that had just awoken from a mini coma.

The poor man is then pounced on by the ginger in the next moment, practically crushing him just from one hug.

Pico never gives any of those, so it’s safe to say that he younger just really stands there and awkwardly accepts it.

“Dude, what—”

“Shutthefuckupforaminute,” he says against his ear, and then his neck. “Please.”

Keith hesitantly places a hand on the ginger’s back, pats him lightly.

He then, confusedly, listens to him apologize over and over, wetting his neck with tears. 

* * *

  
It’s what he wanted, but it wasn’t expected.

He hadn’t planned for it to happen here or now. 

The bodies of the couple were strewn about the room, turned comatose by the destructively profuse amount of energy being sucked out of the body.

The creature thinly dressed in black slithered over the ground, it’s large yellow head greatly mutated, giving it several eyes and mouths that went all around the head, hundreds of teeth per mouth. 

It moved as if it hadn’t owned a single bone in it’s body, the joints of it’s legs reaching up as high as it’s waisted, still on all fours, climbing over the nearly unconscious body of Amelia.

The creature hovered it’s oversized mouth above hers, widening and unhinging it’s jaw like a snake, for numerous of black wisps to crawl out and pour down into her mouth.

The partially acute edges of the wisps reach great depths of her throat, hooking into a curved pit and violently jerking her body upwards.

At an incredibly slow pace, the skin of her exposed limbs gradually darkened into a midnight blue, starting at her fingertips and feet.

The ginger gasps and rolls over onto his side and then his knees, aims the barrel of his gun right at the thing’s back and shoots three times.

The bullets fly through it’s clothed black, leaving three holes that don’t bleed anything but more wisps, which pair together the stolen pieces of skin.

The thing turned around hastily, every mouth on it’s enlarged lemon for a head opening and releasing a bloodcurdling shriek of anger. Pico has to cover both ears, even with the gun still in one palm.

The demon immediately gets off Amelia, starts to crawl towards him at a pace too fast for the ginger to process, ramming him right onto his back and knocking the weapon out of his fingers.

Pico puts his hands up against the thing’s stretching chest, which gurgled with more wisps, eyes wide in panic from how vulnerable he now was, especially without the gun.

The demon places it’s elongated claws around his throat, lifts the body that’s a good few feet smaller, dangles him by the throat and vomits a disgusting amount of wisps into his mouth.

The stuff felt like it’d been decorated with thin razor blades, mincing his throat into ribbons, completely restraining his ability to speak, or even breathe.

He starts to thrash desperately, kicking and clawing at the demon, trying to push himself away from the mouth infecting him with it’s sinister corruption, even though his feet were several feet up from even grazing the floor.

The demon leans in closer. Pico could feel the wisps stretching in his stomach, cutting all the intestines and contaminating it by bleeding glowing, black liquid into it. 

His mind is flooded with unconditional fear when he catches a view of his fingertips. It had slowly darkened as if the blood circulation had been cut off for a few long minutes. His body felt unbearably cold and lacerated.

He wraps his hands around the wrist of the claw still tightly gripping his neck, squeezes and squeezes out of hope that it’d somehow show mercy and relent.

The sight of the demon with all it’s numerous mouths stretching wide open, various rows of no longer human-like but thin, sharpened teeth now attempting to lean in and break into the flesh of his face.

Several gunshots pierce the room, a spray of bullets lodging into the lower, hind abdomen and legs of the creature. It obviously doesn’t kill the demon, as it turns around angrily as it had done before. 

A certain blue-haired man stands a bit listless, aiming the weapon at the creature in points where the bullets wouldn’t fly through and strike the ginger still in it’s grasp.

The demon quickly and just as carelessly drops the ginger, who immediately starts to retch, sprinting towards the much smaller guy in a crawl, who began to panic and tremble with the weapon in his hands.

Keith curses, scared out of his fucking mind but he does manage to shoot the thing, though missing two or three times. The bullet fly into it’s upper torso, extending wisps already starting to stitch the holes together.

The demon lets out another piercing shriek, announcing it’s desire to kill, right before Keith shoots it in it’s mouth, unintentionally.

Keith drops the gun as soon as the creature wails and makes a break for the window, didn’t dare go after it.

He glances to Amelia, who’s breathing with her chest, looking relatively, and somehow, peaceful. Pico is staring at his hands, which are darkened all the way up to his wrists.

He knows that it’s a haunting sight, knows that it’s even scarier for the ginger who owns those infected hands. He goes straight to him and puts his arms around him, really more out of relief than comfort.

(Relief that he isn’t dead or completely taken over by the corruption.)

Pico doesn’t respond to the hug, but Keith gets it. He’d been fully infected by the corruption at some point, and when he still, _barely_ had his own thoughts and brain intact, fear was the only thing he could feel.

“It’ll go away,” Keith tells him as quietly as he could, picking up the handgun and setting it into the ginger’s lap because his hands were too shaky to grip anything.

They, or more specifically, _Keith_ takes Amelia back to their home, sits by her side for every minute that she was asleep, afraid that if he left even for just one moment, she’d stop breathing. 

Pico was still in some trance of shock from it all. Keith would occasionally leave him by himself to cope however he wanted, however he could, but more often than not, he hugged the guy until the ginger struggled to contain his sobs, shaking in Keith’s arms.

It’s rare, but it’s considerably appreciated, from both ends of the pair.

* * *

  
  


When Amelia awakens some days later— days that Pico spends all alone in his room, stressing over what he’d do and how he’d find that demon again— she approaches the ginger after briefly catching up with Keith.

But only after having a longer shower and a feast with Keith, because the two really were a bunch of fatasses.

She quietly shuts the door to Pico’s room behind herself, walks towards the guy who’s on his bed and also in a bit of an angered state.

It’s not much of a doubt that he’s thinking about what he should’ve done, or, in his mind, what he _failed_ to do when the demon attacked the three.

Keith and Amelia would both frequently remind the guy that they were alright, that the corruption wasn’t inside them anymore, and most importantly, that he’d done _enough_ , but nothing ever satisfied him. 

The only thing that could was getting his hands stained in blood from the demon who infected them all.

Amelia warms her hand over his which is incredibly cold and still colored a deep blue.

She shows him that that doesn’t bother her and it didn’t change anything about their relationship.

Pico looks up to meet her in her eyes, the slightest bit of fear evident in his own blue pair. She only smiles at him, a notion that tells him that it’s alright, that they’re okay.

She takes the gun out of his hands then, notices that he’s growing both a bit stiff and shaky at the same time.

“Talk to him when _you’re_ ready, alright, Pico?”

She then gives to him these thin, black gloves which would cover all the affected skin.

(They both knew that this was the best they could since it was rare to get completely cleaned from the corruption, and even if it did happen, the process was slow.)

Pico takes the gloves and puts them on. She gives him careful, quiet assurance, something she knows he needs (something he’s _always_ needed but never _had_ ), and tells him to join her and Keith on the couch to watch shitty movies.

Pico’s brows are still pinched from all the stress he’d been fighting with the moment before she stepped foot in the room.

He wasn’t sure if he could face the guy, not after nearly strangling him the night prior because of the corruption, his eyes glinted pink.

Pico had caught himself and immediately let go, choosing to only watch as the guy caught his breath and then scrambled away, frightened and bruised.

He knew that it wasn’t Pico’s fault, they both knew. When he and Amelia were completely corrupted, the two often fought each other, and not in a playful way, yet it didn’t help Keith feel any less scared or help Pico feel any less guilty.

Still, though, after a handful of minutes and an earful of laughter and the loud ringing of their old, hardly working microwave, he slowly goes and joins them.

The two had been fighting on the couch over a bag of snacks. Keith stops completely, eyes wide at the sight of the ginger who had finally left his room and was now wearing... gloves?

Amelia is smiling, patting the space besides herself, also besides Keith, so he could sit down.

Pico reluctantly sits himself down on the couch, now trapped between the two presences, one of which was practically radiating fear.

As much as Pico wanted to turn and apologize, he lacked the ability to.

The microwave beeps loudly and Amelia quickly gets up and goes to retrieve it, knowing that she’d leave the two alone together.

The air was dangerously eerie. Keith had to restrain himself from moving away from the ginger, afraid that it’d hurt or annoy him further.

Pico doesn’t try to move, either, because even as so much as adjusting his shirt, he catches Keith flinching in the corner of his eye.

He thinks to himself, _when did everything go to such shit_?

And also, _why the fuck did she say that bullshit and then leave them alone together_?

He almost heaves out a sigh, goes to rub his face with his hand when he catches the younger man slightly twitching. It’s was a partially suppressed flinch, but something about it felt off.

Pico forces himself to look at him, tired of all the guilt choking at him the way that the corruption in his intestines were still bothering him. “M’ sorry... didn’t know what came over me.”

(Finally, an apology, but it’s a shitty one.)

Nonetheless, the younger looks at him and slightly smiles. It’s a very awkward one, as if he was containing himself.

“I told you it wasn’t your fault, dude.”

Pico wrinkles his brows. “Then why are you scared?”

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re fucking flinching, Keith.”

Keith hesitates after that, but as soon as the ginger began to move away, he grabs him by his gloved wrists. Pico’s the one to flinch this time.

“Your gloves.”

“What fucking about ‘em?”

“... I like them.”

Pico’s wrinkled expression softens for a split second. Keith gives him this look and shies away.

The ginger easily snatches him back and hovers over him. One palm flattens against the back of the couch, the other rests on the younger’s hip, the gloves fingertips slipping into the thin of his shirt.

Keith makes this surprise sounds, already so red in the face, especially when his partner smugly beams.

Amelia reaches the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Her smile had been innocent at first, but then at the sight of them (Keith’s spread legs, the ginger situated right between), it slightly faltered.

“Oh... am I interrupting something?”

Her voice is sweet, just like honey, and Pico loves it.

“No,” he replies, still smirking, never once taking his eyes off the youngest of them. “There’s room for three.”

The woman sets the bowl onto the table and sits herself on the couch. She lifts her shirt above her head, leaving her in her red bra. Pico smirks at her briefly before they both look to Keith, who only swallows nervously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I’ve been lacking on doing the requests. Recently it’s been getting impossible just waking up or getting out of bed. I’ll try to be more active and certainly do all your requests bc they’re all so creative and awesome :^)


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